


Cicatrix

by Apricot



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/pseuds/Apricot
Summary: John's got three favorite scars.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [green_wing](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=green_wing).



Any scar is a good scar. A scar means that whatever was out to hurt or kill you hadn't succeeded, and you'd lived long enough after to watch the thing heal over. Healing was fine. Winning was better. And  _living_ was the best of all.

Yeah, John Constantine knows that winning and living don't necessarily go hand-in-hand, but it's really better than the alternative. He's healed—and won—and consequently _lived,_ a lot.

So he's got more than a few scars.

 

* * *

 

_3._

There’s a distinct five-pointed star a few inches to the right of his heart, about the size of a quarter.

He’s not usually vain, but the shape pleases him. Plenty of people—okay, maybe one or two people—have asked about it. It's actually the one that he doesn't mind getting asked about. The origin story is gleefully mundane, despite the intriguing pentagram shape.

He actually hasn’t told anyone the true story yet. It's way more fun inventing up interesting lies.

 

* * *

_2._

The second scar is a deep scratch along his forearm.

That one he didn’t get stitched up, which he probably should've. It was courtesy a bruja’s familiar—talons raking deep—but it had been along the back of his arm and there were better things to worry about at the time.

Angela had been there, when it had happened. She’d wrapped it in gauze, efficient and brisk like the cop she was at her core. She wasn't much of a nurse, but he didn't exactly have choices at the time. The scar was still an angry red mark down the back of his arm, although the inflamed skin seemed to be fading by degrees, every time he looked at it.

When he did look at it, he remembered Angela. Her features had been tight, not exactly calm with her brusque ministrations, but collected. Any trace of fear had been pushed back. Fear didn't anyone any good. Angela understood that.

Her hands had been gentle enough, and she'd cracked some joke or said something he can't recall now, once she'd stopped the bleeding. It had distracted him from the ache in his arm.

 

* * *

  _1._

His favorite scar is long and jagged. It’s just over his hip, the remnant of a curse that had torn into his flesh and healed badly. With the _zig-zag_ , the lightning shape of it, it had been a bitch to stitch. Especially when he’d had to do it himself, angled over the sink with a needle, thread, and a string of swear words.

The goddamn thing had itched the whole time it had healed.

It's his favorite, though. Because at least it wasn’t on his fucking forehead.

He absolutely never would have lived that down.

 


End file.
